


if that's what you need

by Sibilant



Series: Inception Bingo 2016 [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, Established Relationship, Friendship, Inception Bingo, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7682785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A seemingly innocuous business proposal forces Eames to confront some long-standing issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if that's what you need

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'bodyswap' square on my bingo card, although it features no actual bodyswapping. Go figure. I started writing this at pretty much the same time I started writing [What Honest Words](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7631605), so if they seem like variations on a theme, well… that’s why.
> 
> Thank you to pyromancer for her super quick beta services. As always, any and all remaining mistakes are due to my inability to stop tinkering, even down to the very last minute.

“Yusuf is threatening to put me out of business,” Eames says, scanning Yusuf’s e-mail for the second time. The re-read only increases the gloomy sourness percolating in his gut.

Arthur angles the laptop so he can see the screen, too, his knees bumping against Eames’ at the movement. They’re squashed together on the sofa in Arthur’s surprisingly cluttered LA flat. Eames could have taken one of the armchairs opposite, but Arthur had shifted to one side of the sofa when Eames walked in, wordlessly making room for him, and that had been that.

“I think it’s more he’s warning you that this could limit _some_ of your business,” Arthur says, finally. “There’s not much of a threat here, from what I can see.”

Eames sniffs. “That’s because your blunt American sensibilities aren’t attuned to the subtler aspects of English threats.” The corners of his mouth turn down further. “Mark my works, it’s a threat. He’s being vindictive.”

“Okay.” Arthur’s tone appends an unspoken _if you say so_ to the word. “Well, maybe he wouldn’t be, if you dropped this cold war act you’ve got going on, and just talked to him.”

“Oh?” Eames says, lightly. “The way you and Cobb do, you mean?”

He means for it to nettle. But Arthur has, irritatingly, acquired some newfound brand of equanimity - one distinct from the stone-faced calm he usually sports while working - in the wake of the Fischer job.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Have really stilted conversations, once or twice a week, every week, until things start improving in increments.”

Eames grimaces. “That sounds ghastly.” He moves to close the laptop, in defiance of Arthur’s quasi-advice, but Arthur catches the lid, tugs the laptop onto his lap properly, reading Yusuf’s proposal again. His expression shifts from curious to thoughtful, considering.

Eames narrows his eyes.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Arthur says, looking sidelong at him. “You’re usually the first person to say things like, ‘it’s just business’ when _you_ sell someone out. And you work with plenty of people who’ve double-crossed you.”

“Yes,” Eames snaps, “but that’s because I usually see the double-crosses coming!” He bristles when Arthur raises his eyebrows, mouth forming a silent ‘ah’ of understanding, like it all makes sense now, like Eames is _predictable_. Eames is not predictable. Eames is mysterious and unknowable.

“I don’t think you’re going to be out of work.” Arthur hands Eames’ laptop back to him. “It’s not like this formula is giving people the ability to forge absolutely anyone. They can only swap appearances with someone else who’s hooked up to the PASIV. That presents its own set of problems.” Arthur starts ticking points off his fingers. “Organising access to _two_ marks instead of one, for example. And once the extractor is wearing the forge—”

“It’s not a forge,” Eames mutters.

“Once the extractor is in the guise of someone the mark trusts,” Arthur amends, without missing a beat, “what then? Not everyone is a good actor. It might even make the mark’s subconscious _more_ suspicious, not less. Teams might decide using a forger is easier or more advantageous than using this blend.”

Eames grunts, dissatisfied.

“And, okay,” Arthur says, “let’s say the worst case scenario _does_ happen, and people don’t want forgers anymore. Even if that does happen, it’s not going to affect the demand for real world forgers, or competent thieves and safecrackers. It’s not like you’re being left out in the cold with no work prospects.”

“Is this your idea of being comforting?” Eames asks, squinting at him. “My God, it is, isn’t it?”

Arthur pats his hand, bracing. “I’m going to take Yusuf up on his offer to test the formula. You should, too. It means we’ll be first on the ground if it’s successful, and we’ll know firsthand what it can and can’t do. This has a lot of potential. If it works—”

“It’ll open up new avenues in dreamshare,” Eames finishes, flatly. He shifts aside, as best as he can, on the suddenly too-small sofa. He generally finds it charming, the way Arthur is forever in love with the endless possibilities of dreaming, but he’s finding it hard to remember why, at the moment.

“It’s been a while since we’ve worked on something new and interesting— don’t snort, this formula Yusuf has come up with _is_ interesting.” Arthur smiles wide enough to show off his dimples, inviting. “We can get some sun, you can check out all your old haunts…” his smile turns gently teasing. “Maybe deal with some unresolved shit?”

Eames refuses to give in to the temptation to smile back. “And if I don’t want to?”

Arthur pats his arm again, with a small sigh. “Then don’t,” he says. “It’s your choice, Eames.”

 

* * *

 

Eames spends the rest of the evening watching Arthur look up flights to Mombasa and organise accommodation.

It would be so much easier, Eames thinks, if Arthur did it all pointedly, maybe with some added sullen silence. Eames could feel smug and righteous in his refusal to accompany Arthur then. Maybe even take it as an excuse - no, a _reason_ \- to abscond in the middle of the night, because if Arthur wants to go to Mombasa, then surely Eames is free to go somewhere else. It isn’t as if Eames is under house arrest; he doesn’t have to _stay_ in Arthur’s flat while Arthur is gone. Eames could go to Dubai. Or Italy. Or Ecuador. He could go anywhere, at any time, just like he used to before he— before all of _this_ , with Arthur.

Except—

Except Arthur makes it clear that he’s willing - maybe even hoping - to book for two. He keeps soliciting Eames’ opinion on places to stay, things to do, seeking out a long-time resident’s perspective on how to explore the city.

“It’ll be nice to finally see the place without a deadline or a schedule hanging over my head,” Arthur says, as he scrolls through a list detailing Mombasa’s nearby natural attractions. “Or, at least, not an arduous schedule. And— oh hey, have you been to Shimba Hills? Is it worth visiting?”

Eames considers the possibility that this is a multi-layered act of passive-aggression, then dismisses the idea as ludicrous. This is Arthur, whose idea of subtle, coy flirtation is ‘kiss me so the projections will look away,’ and ‘I think we’re supposed to get complimentary bathrobes at this hotel, help me find them,’ while stripping out of his clothes and heading for the bathroom. Arthur is, essentially, as subtle as a brick to the face. He does not do layers, except in the sartorial sense of the word.

Which is all well and good, except it means Eames has no convenient target to take his frustration - this strange restlessness - out on, aside from cleaning up. After Arthur announces he’s going to bed, Eames scrubs each plate and glass for much longer than he needs to, and bins the rubbish with excessive force. Spends a few hours prowling around the flat, surveying it with a thief’s eye: cataloguing everything that’s valuable, light, or easily moveable, all the things that could be pocketed within seconds before fleeing.

It’s past midnight when he finally gives in, and slinks into the bedroom.

Arthur is sitting up in bed, reading a dog-eared paperback - _Dune_ , Eames notes; Arthur is an impossible nerd, sometimes, honestly - but he looks up when Eames enters, and immediately sets the book aside, smiling.

It all makes Eames feel like a bit of a heel. Just a bit.

“Hey,” Arthur says, as Eames climbs onto the bed.

Eames crawls up the length of Arthur’s body, bracketing him in with his arms, and kisses him lightly. “Hello.”

Arthur’s smile becomes something smaller, more intimate. “You okay now?”

“What sort of a question is that?” Eames sits back and raises his eyebrows, feigning utter confusion, as Arthur puts a hand on his arm. “Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says, a touch dry. “It seemed like there were a couple of things to choose from. I wasn’t sure which. Or that you were even sure yourself. That’s why I thought I’d give you some space. I figured you’d tell me what was up, if you wanted to. Eventually.” He strokes his thumb back and forth against Eames’ collarbone, and peers at Eames, curious. “ _Do_ you want to talk about it?”

Eames is very, very good at talking. He is marvellous at talking, in fact, having made a living - in part - out of spinning castles in the air; of selling marks on promises of nothing that nevertheless sound like everything, before taking them for all that they’re worth.

Now, though, here with Arthur, Eames finds the best he can manage is a shake of his head, and a muttered, “Not really, no.”

He contradicts that only seconds later by blurting: “This is— unusual for me.”

Arthur tilts his head, but says nothing, waiting for Eames to elaborate.

“Not in the sense that this is out of character for me, exactly,” Eames says. “But—” He rubs his mouth, trying to find the words. The right words. “I’m not accustomed to making— concessions, let’s say, outside of work. Or altering my plans, or going along with plans that might contradict my own.”

“You don’t have to come to Mombasa with me,” Arthur says. “I mean, I’m not going to lie, I think it’d be great if you did, but I’m not going to flip out if you’d rather not.”

“Yes, I know,” Eames says, although he didn’t, exactly, until now. “It’s more than just Mombasa, however.” He swallows, then clears his throat, trying to dislodge the horrid ball of apprehension that’s taken up residence in his gut and seems to be trying to migrate up his throat. “It’s just— it seems I’m having some difficulty. Accepting the idea of me becoming - in some respects, at least part of the time - a ‘we’.” He tries for airy, as he adds, “You know how it is, attachments are like roots. They make it harder for you to just up and leave one day, if you want— if you have to.”

“Is that what you want?” Arthur asks. “To up and leave one day?”

Eames can’t parse his tone or the expression on his face. All Eames can tell is what it’s _not_ : it’s not angry or hurt or anything else overtly negative, but—

“I might not have a choice,” Eames points out, aiming for a tone of great sacrifice. “If someone were to find out about you, and use you against me, or vice versa—”

“Very noble,” Arthur says, with a wry little smile, and Eames blinks, surprised at the relief he feels at the sight. “But I can take care of myself, and you can, too. And in some cases it might be better if we stick together, even if someone is after only one of us. So let’s go back to you wanting to up and leave sometimes.” He reaches out and rubs Eames’ knee. “That’s okay, you know. I’m okay with that.”

Eames scrutinises his face, searching for the trap. He doesn’t bother to hide his skepticism when he says, “Really.”

The corners of Arthur’s eyes crinkle, like he’s about to laugh, before smoothing out. “Yeah, really,” he says, solemnly. He purses his mouth for a second, thinking, then says, seemingly apropos of nothing, “So, when I was seven, we got this cat, right?” He pauses. “Well, I say we got him, but what actually happened was he showed up on the balcony one night, and made this godawful racket until we fed him, and then he ended up staying. My mom called him Cat.”

Eames’ brow furrows. He’d never considered the possibility of limited imagination having a genetic basis before.

“Cat wasn’t— you know, he wasn’t a great cat or anything,” Arthur goes on. His voice is turning nostalgic, and Eames listens, mystified. “Just your average shorthair. Kind of weird looking, actually.” Arthur scratches at his chin. “I think he could only see out of one eye, and he didn’t interact with anyone so much as just… sit near them, and then move away if they tried to touch him. Didn’t stop me from feeling devastated when he up and disappeared one day, though.”

The horrible ball - the one that shrunk upon seeing Arthur’s smile - balloons outward in Eames’ gut again, but Arthur’s expression doesn’t tighten, his voice doesn’t turn accusing. He simply leans back against the headboard, the very picture of calm as he keeps talking.

“We figured he must have slipped out the kitchen window, and the best case scenario was that he was in a completely different part of town.” One corner of Arthur’s mouth twitches up into a grin. “But about a month later, Cat showed up again. He stayed for a couple months, and then— _poof._ ” Arthur flicks his fingers. “He left again. Kept it up for years, right up until he actually died. It was a little weird, but—” he shrugs, and looks at Eames, fond. “Anyway, you remind me of Cat.”

Eames takes half a minute to process that. “Are you seriously comparing me to an ugly, flea-bitten, one-eyed moggy,” he asks, “and trying to make it sound like a good thing?”

“Cat wasn’t flea-bitten,” Arthur says. “And I didn’t say he was ugly. Although, yeah, you’re a lot better looking than he was, if you really want to compare apples and oranges. Or cats and humans.” He traces a finger along the scar bisecting Eames’ eyebrow. “My point is— I don’t mind you coming and going whenever you need to, if that’s what you need. As long as you do come back eventually.”

It sounds— perfect. Just what Eames needs. Too good to be true. And Eames knows all about things that seem too good to be true.

“It’s not very conventional, is it?” Eames hedges, because knowing something is too good to be true doesn’t preclude one from wanting it. It’s a strategy he’s relied on more than once, with the more self-aware marks.

“We make a living by invading people’s privacy, and stealing their secrets out of their dreams,” Arthur replies. “We’re not conventional people.”

Eames is silent. His temples throb slightly as he turns the situation over and over, examining it from all directions. He can’t see Arthur’s angle. He doesn’t know where Arthur is going with this. He obviously needs to set aside some prime introspection time - work out whether this is an Arthur-specific blind spot he’s developed here, or if he’s losing his edge in his middle age.

“This seems suspiciously easy,” he says finally, at a loss to do anything other than take a page from Arthur’s book, and go for blunt.

“Suspiciously?” Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Is easy a bad thing now?”

“It could be,” Eames says.

Suspiciously easy was Eames’ parents, who never argued because they never spoke unless they had to. Suspiciously easy was Eames’ marks, who never argued because Eames could become everything and anything they ever wanted.

Only… Arthur isn’t a con man, is he? Not the way Eames is. And nor is he a titled toff marrying into the nouveau riche for financial security. He’s just… Arthur, he of the straightforward come-ons, the blunt criticisms, the open desire and naked affection.

Eames could have this, if he lets himself believe.

Eames reaches out, cups the back of Arthur’s neck, and draws him into a kiss. Feels the solidity, the straightforwardness of him, reminding himself of the way Arthur moves in a more-or-less straight line in their world of corkscrew deceptions and double-dealing loops.

Arthur makes an inquisitive noise, and Eames opens his mouth, deepens the kiss. He bites and licks at Arthur’s bottom lip until Arthur opens his mouth with a gasp; until Arthur reaches for him, hungry, and tries to haul him onto his lap properly.

Eames doesn’t let him. He pulls away instead, tugging at the waistband of Arthur’s pyjama bottoms with intent.

Arthur, ever the clever one, catches on quickly. He lifts his hips, allows Eames to drag his pants off. He’s barely half-hard, but Eames has been having sex with him on an almost daily basis for the past two months now; he knows Arthur’s body well enough that it’s easy to work Arthur up into full hardness, then into a gasping, shivering wreck in less than a minute.

Eames likes to tease, normally. Likes to limit his licks to just the head of Arthur’s prick before moving away completely, or going at the speed just below what Arthur likes. He revels in the way Arthur’s moans deepen, the faint salt taste when Arthur begins to leak, almost continuously, onto Eames’ tongue. Loves the diffuse sense of power he feels when Arthur tries not to buck, the way he holds on - shuddering and cursing and laughing - until Eames eventually, finally decides to let him come.

Eames doesn’t tease now. Just applies a steady working of tongue and suction, cheeks hollowed, that gets Arthur panting, mumbling nonsense, his muscles tensing and untensing beneath Eames, the occasional tremble as he resists the urge to thrust.

“Oh God,” Arthur says, words blurring at the edges, his voice gone so deep that Eames’ whole body goes tight with want. “Eames. _Eames_. Jesus, your mouth, you—” A shallow, unsteady breath. “I’m gonna—

Eames rubs his thigh, encouraging, and Arthur comes with a loud, helpless groan, his whole body coiling tight as he spurts into Eames’ mouth, before going lax.

The sight of Arthur flushed and post-orgasmic has always done things for Eames, and this is no exception. Eames scrambles out of his trousers, intending to finish himself off quickly, but Arthur, despite being half-insensate from climax, seems to have other ideas.

“Come here,” Arthur says, slurring a little. He tugs at Eames’ arm until Eames is lying beside him, legs tangled with Arthur’s, and Arthur can take him in hand.

And Eames isn’t the only one who’s been learning the sweet spots, watching the tells. Arthur jacks him in long, smooth strokes - playing with the head occasionally, going faster on the upstroke, exactly the way Eames likes it. The fingers of his other hand play with Eames’ balls, rolling them gently, producing a secondary note of arousal, a low hum beneath the rising crescendo.

Arthur isn’t the type to tease by stopping completely, the way Eames does. But he slows down at points - not quite teasing, but like he’s giving Eames breathing room. Eames has never been— skittish in this arena, though. He tugs Arthur forward so he can kiss him again. Makes it messy and wet, half-plea and half-incentive, until Arthur gives up on slow, until Arthur tightens his grip, works Eames relentlessly, without pause.

Eames’ mouth goes slack as the arousal coils tighter, low in his belly, while the pleasure ratchets up higher. His breath catches, then punches out of his lungs entirely as his orgasm hits, a rolling tide of white noise that washes aside all thought for a few gloriously long moments.

Eames rolls onto his back, breathing hard, eyes still closed. Tries to hang onto that lovely blank state. It’s no good, of course, but Eames tries anyway.

The damp touch of a lukewarm cloth against his belly makes him jump.

Eames opens his eyes, and grips Arthur’s wrist, a vague feeling of embarrassment welling up in his chest. How long had he been lying there, for Arthur to think he’d have to clean Eames up?

“You alright?” Arthur asks.

Eames nods, and takes over the business of wiping his chest and stomach down.

“Thank you,” he says, looking sidelong at Arthur.

He means it in reference to the cloth, but somewhere between the words forming and leaving his mouth, his tone shifts: becomes something with weight, almost solemn, and Eames really is going to have to find some time in the near future to evaluate himself and his skills.

“It’s not something you have to thank me for,” Arthur says. “Really.” He says it with an amused, fond sort of exasperation, which suggests he isn’t talking about the washcloth. He climbs into bed, kisses Eames’ bicep, then lies down on his side, and promptly drops off into sleep. Not one for extended cuddling, Arthur.

Eames divests himself of the rest of his clothing, then lies back, too, but Arthur’s easy sleep eludes him. His thoughts chase themselves around and around, less frantic now, but still ceaseless.

After five whole minutes of this, Eames gets up, and fetches his laptop. Arthur doesn’t stir, sleeping like a rock while Eames takes his restlessness out on the keyboard, hammering the keys with slightly more force than necessary as he amends all of Arthur’s bookings, makes them bookings for two.

(He upgrades the hotel room as well, because Arthur would expect no less of him, really.)

Eames sits back, once he’s done. He feels— better, but sleep doesn’t seem like an imminent reward. At this rate, Eames might have to hook himself up to the PASIV, and—

He stops. Looks at the clock. 1:28am, the digital display reads, which means it’s close to midday in Mombasa.

Eames taps his finger against the side of his laptop, deliberating, then opens a chat window, and types:

_You win, you bastard. We’ll see you in Mombasa._

He thinks for a few more moments, then resumes typing: _It’s possible that in the course of recent_

Eames stops again. Deletes that. Decides to channel Arthur at his most direct.

_We are going to have words._

Yusuf’s reply comes within minutes: _That sounds horrendous. Must we?_

Eames can easily imagine the faint horror that Yusuf says it with, because he feels it, too.

 _It’s no less than you deserve,_ he types. And then, because it feels somewhat like a confessional, sitting in the dark with only the glow of the laptop screen, with the safety of distance and text, he adds: _I thought perhaps your new formula was an attempt to edge me out of the field._

 _I thought about it,_ Yusuf’s reply reads, spread out over four messages. _Bit of a ‘fuck you’ for not accepting my apology. Apologies, actually. Plural._

 _Ha,_ Eames thinks, slanting a vindicated glance at Arthur’s slumbering form. Americans.

Another message from Yusuf pops up:

_Wasn’t my primary goal, though. More of a side benefit._

Eames nods to himself. Yusuf has never been one to funnel endless amounts of energy into exacting retribution. Too much effort, not enough pay out (if any). It was part of why they got along so well. And might do still, depending on how things go.

The window pings with yet another message from Yusuf: _Do we still have to have words?_

 _Yes,_ Eames replies, hitting each key with supreme satisfaction.

There’s no response for a whole minute. Then: _Can we at least have words over beer?_

Eames considers that. On one hand, it’s always been far too easy to get distracted when drinking with Yusuf. On the other, saying ‘no’ means possibly talking about feelings of aggrieved betrayal while stone-cold sober. Without the assistance of alcohol - if the conversation Eames just had with Arthur is any indication - Eames and Yusuf might just end up dry-heaving from the nauseating awkwardness of it all, rather than talking.

 _Very well,_ Eames types, hoping Yusuf grasps the full magnanimity of his words through the screen. _Words over beer it shall be._

He closes the window shortly afterwards, sets the laptop aside. The jangling thoughts in his head are— not silent, but quieter. Slower. Slow and quiet enough for Eames to fully recognise the heaviness of his limbs when he lies down, the dry grittiness in his eyes.

Arthur stirs briefly, but doesn’t rouse, as Eames tucks himself up against his back. Eames will inevitably roll away at some point in the night - or Arthur will.

But, for now, Eames drapes an arm over Arthur’s waist, savouring the warm solidity of him all over again, and lets himself drift off to sleep.


End file.
